


Red Dead Degradation

by LowHonorArthur



Series: Marston's Master, Mister Morgan [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse, Anal Sex, Blackmail, Forced Deepthroat, Interrogation, Knifeplay, Low Honor Arthur Morgan, M/M, No Honor Arthur Morgan, Non-Consensual Bondage, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sadism, Torture, Violence, Waterboarding, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:46:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23822542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LowHonorArthur/pseuds/LowHonorArthur
Summary: Arthur discovers John being friendly with the law and demands answers.Please be mindful of the warnings and tags attached to this work.Due to the graphic nature of this story it should not be viewed by anyone.
Relationships: John Marston & Arthur Morgan, John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Marston's Master, Mister Morgan [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807486
Comments: 17
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in an unfamiliar location. A worried Abigail asks Arthur for help.

Since his return, John wasn’t comfortable leaving camp for more than a couple of hours. He keenly felt the eyes of the others on him whenever he was packing up Old Boy for a ride. John feared that he would never truly be forgiven for leaving the way he did. The gang had welcomed him back warmly enough but as the months wore on it seemed clear that the people he regarded as his family wouldn't bring themselves to trust in him again. He understood it, sure, but that didn’t do much to stem the pain it caused him.

John rested his forehead into his palms and began massaging his scalp in a feeble attempt to dispel the pounding sensation inside of his skull. It wasn’t supposed to have been like this. He had headed to the Rhodes saloon for a quick drink; just a moment of silent respite to clear his head after another volatile screaming match with Abigail. John hadn’t meant those awful words, certainly wouldn’t have said ‘em if he’d noticed Jack standing there. If he had any such thing as a last nerve then that woman had surely pushed it; still he hadn’t intended to get himself this drunk, hadn’t planned to spend the night away from camp. He certainly had not wanted to wind up here.

Ugh. _Here._ And where exactly was _here_? Brief flashes of the previous night revealed themselves. There had been a lot more than just the first drink he’d settled on. There had been a fight. Maybe more than one? There was a pretty girl. Maybe more than one of those, too. John shook his head and sighed deeply. No sense trying to paint a picture. His head was spinning. He felt sick.

“Hey, _hey_!”

John didn’t recognize the voice shouting out at him. The acidic burn in his stomach and the tightness of his throat were all he could focus on as he fell to his knees and started gagging.

“Goddamnit, son. There’s a bucket in the corner. Fuck.”

John continued to gag, desperately swallowing the excessive moisture pooling in his cheeks. He had never felt so hot. His hands flew to his chest as he began pulling his shirt open in an attempt to cool off. He tried to focus on his surroundings well enough to find the bucket but there was no hope, his body crashed hard on to the floor and darkness overtook his vision once more. 

* * * * * *

“Arthur? Arthur I need your help.” 

Arthur didn’t look up from his journal. “Is it John, again?”

“Yes.” 

“Of course it is.” Arthur closed his journal on the unfinished sketch of the lakeshore along their new camp at Clemens Point. He looked up. The thin lines in Abigail’s face were pulled tight with a mixture of fear and frustration. She was a good woman, Abigail. Arthur was quite fond of her. All the same, these demands she made of Arthur's time were becoming a more frequent affair than he’d of liked. “And what role I gotta fill this time, Abigail? Am I going fishing? Shopping? Taking Jack to the circus?” 

Abigail was hurt by Arthur’s callousness but she shoved her shame aside and began to describe the condition in which her husband had stormed out of camp. Seems he’d left the night before last after stating a strong desire to ‘no longer have to lay eyes on the nagging shrew he’d married’. Arthur fought the urge to smile. The kid could be a real prick, but it was a great source of amusement to watch the idiot suffer. 

“This isn’t your first fight, Abigail. He’ll be back.” 

“It’s just he ain’t never been gone this long before. Not since…” She shifted uncomfortably. “...since then.” 

Arthur pulled himself on to his feet with a laboured sigh. “Fine, fine. I’ve got to head into town today. I’ll ask around and see what I can dig up.”

Abigail placed her hand on Arthur's shoulder and squeezed it lightly. “Thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur just nodded. There was a desire to say something comforting to the woman but he couldn’t bring himself to it. He wanted to believe that his brother would be back on his own accord, however it wasn’t something Arthur was sure enough about to pledge aloud. There had been a time when the men were close but as the years drew on John had become distant and secretive with Arthur. He had still never plainly explained much about the year he’d run off on them, and as Arthur made his way over to his tent to prepare for the ride he decided that if he did find John today he was finally going to demand a real answer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes up with a plan to escape. It's a gamble, to say the least.

It was a slow recovery from what likely had been the worst hangover John Marston had ever subjected himself to. John had spent more of the past day sleeping than bothering with much else, which suited him fine; no better way to kill time inside a jail cell.

Seems he’d managed to knock the life out of a fellow patron who had crossed him in the Rhodes Parlour House. The events surrounding the fight were buried somewhere inside his mind, but so far he had been unable to conjure up exactly what had pushed him into that violent rage. John felt terrible, he sought out a drink immediately after screaming at his wife and he couldn’t lie to himself about arriving at that saloon with good intentions. That man didn’t need to die; just bad luck all around, really. 

Unfortunately that story wasn’t quite good enough for the town’s Sheriff. John overheard him explaining to his deputy that once their prisoner had sobered up well enough to travel he was to be transported to the Saint Denis lockup. John was somewhat relieved. They weren’t sending him to Blackwater so they must not have figured out who exactly he is. At least drunk he’d still managed to toss out his alternative moniker. 

John could feel his nerves acting up. None of the folk back at camp knew where he was and there would be less a chance of being found if he were successfully transported. Would they just assume he’d left again? With no weapons, no money, and no real angle to work his way out of lockup, John had done his best to buy some time laying still to feign continued illness.

“I’m required elsewhere for the afternoon, Eddy.” The sheriff said. “There’s been some trouble in the woods North of here a’ways. Been asked to meet with a few of the families settled up there. Should be back late tonight, you take care of things here for me will ya? We’ll send a wagon up to Saint Denis tomorrow.”

“Head up that way together, boss?” the deputy tripped over himself as he blurted out the question. “Like, you & I both?”

The sheriff barely noticed the excited tone in his deputy’s voice, or if he did he’d brushed it off as anxiety. “Yes, son, the both of us. Haven’t done many prisoner transports out of here lately. If we can pull this off it’ll put our little town back on the lips of the force in Saint Denis. Want them to know we’ve got this place back under control after that mess them Grays caused us all. Be nice to have some more travellers come through here again; the shops sure could use the business.” and with that, the Sheriff tossed a ring of keys on to the top of his desk, pulled on his coat, and headed outside. 

Eddy stood still and watched his boss intently as he’d made his way out of the office. Once the door had shut and the sound of hooves plodded off into the distance the deputy let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He crossed over to the far side of the room and unceremoniously slumped into the chair behind the Sheriff’s desk then closed his eyes.

“Does the dear Sheriff know that you got feelings for him?”

Eddy’s eyes snapped open and locked onto John, who by now had lifted himself into a seated position on the side of his cell’s cot. There was a flash of embarrassment in the deputy’s widened gaze that quickly gave way to anger. “The fuck did you say to me?”

“Eddy, was it? Yeah, Eddy. You have got feelings for your boss, Eddy.”

“W-what in the fuck is your damage, Mr. Milton? There ain’t no kind of funny folk like that around here.” The deputy still hadn’t moved, though he did appear several shades paler than before. 

“Well Deputy,” John stood and made a step towards the bars. “I’ve been watching for a few days now and the way you stare at him, the way you drink down every word he speaks at you, and the way you fall over yourself doing every little task he sets you on? I reckon there’s at least one of those funny folk here right now.” John hoped he was on to something. This was a long shot; if he was right about what he’d seen this might just be the only chance he had to get out of here. Eddy continued to stare holes into the prisoner, his mouth now slightly agape.

“But don’t worry, Eddy. I don’t think that anyone’ll notice.” John wrapped his hands around the bars of the cell and continued. “I reckon I only know what’s going on here because I find myself stuck in a similar situation.” John paused once more, giving Eddy time to absorb his full meaning. 

“You see Deputy, there might just in fact be two of those funny folk ‘round here, right this very moment.” John flashed the most charming smile he could twist his face in to, barely-healed scars aching from the unfamiliar expression. Eddy continued to stare at him, unblinking. John thought the other man looked just exactly like a deer staring down the light of an engine car. “There’s a pack of smokes in with my gear, Eddy. I’d be really appreciative if you might pass them over to me.”

Almost automatically the deputy stood and made his way over to a worn trunk behind his chair containing the prisoner’s effects. After retrieving the pack of smokes Eddy turned around and held them up. “These here, Mr. Milton?” John nodded and maintained the uncharacteristic warmth in his smile. Eddy approached John’s cell and stopped inches from the bars, eyes boring into his prisoner with a palpable suspicion. John’s smile faltered, suddenly overcome with doubts. Had he misread this situation? Had he just made a fatal mistake? This was the sort of thing folks got lynched for, afterall. John swallowed inaudibly.

Eddy retrieved one slender white stick from the colourful cardboard and placed it into his mouth. He lit it in one fluid motion and then exhaled the smoke through the bars towards John purposefully as he studied the black haired murderer. John remained still, steeling himself against the urge to cough. Neither of the men broke eye contact. John felt a tingle of panic creeping up the back of his neck. 

The room remained heavy with silence until finally Eddy spoke; his voice was much softer now. “When did you first _know_?” 

The deputy held the lit cigarette in a small show of concession. Tension flooded out from John’s body. John accepted and took a long drag to calm his nerves before asking for clarification, “When did I know about you and the Sheriff?”

Eddy had returned to the desk, his back towards John. “No, no…” He said distantly, “When did you realize, uh, figure that you were…” it was quite clear that the young man was uncomfortable. Understandably so, this wasn’t a topic to be freely discussed. John had never imagined himself admitting a thing like this to another man, let alone one with a badge. He decided to push forward; if he could earn this man’s trust he may find himself leaving this place before the Sheriff’s return. 

“Realize I was _funny_?” he offered. 

“Yeah.” Eddy had pulled a bottle of whiskey out from one of the desk drawers, but it was only after he picked up the keys and returned to the bars of the cell that John noticed Eddy had placed two empty glasses beside the bottle.

“Young. Real young. Can’t imagine I was much older than fifteen.”

Eddy slid one of the steel keys into the cell lock. The door popped open and Eddy motioned towards one of the chairs as he made his way back to the Sheriff’s desk. John followed and positioned himself gently, gratefully accepting the now full glass Eddy handed to him. “Real young.” John repeated. “And you? When did you first feel that way?”

As they talked and drank John realized he could easily overpower the deputy; his guns were in the unlocked trunk nearby and it wouldn’t be much to force his way out of here. He stayed, though, and continued to drink with Eddy. Part of him justified that the drunker the deputy got, the easier leaving would become, but a more sinister part of him enjoyed being able to talk frankly about a side of him almost no one else knew existed. That might have been why John wound up telling the young man so much more than he’d anticipated himself opening up about, it… it felt _good_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur collects John from the Sheriff's Station in Rhodes.

He hadn’t gotten far, at least. Arthur immediately recognized John’s horse hitched obediently at the post outside the Rhodes Parlour House. Old Boy whinnied excitedly as the man approached and greedily accepted the oatcakes from Arthur’s hand. 

“Good boy.” Arthur cooed as he ran his hand along the horse’s neck.

“You looking for the greasy rat that came in on that horse? The one with the scars?” Came a man’s shout from the deck wrapping around the saloon. He was a sharply dressed fella, the smoke from his cigar swirling up and around the brim of his crusher hat. Arthur crossed the yard and approached the man in a few swift strides.

“I am.” Arthur offered, managing a neutral, uncommitted tone. “Man owes me some money.”

“Well then, if it’s worth something to you I could point you in the right direction.” 

Arthur stiffened and stood tall, he easily had 80lbs over this man. “Are you certain I’m the kind of person you’d be wise to extort, _friend_?” He punctuated the last word with every warning of danger his voice could manage. The shorter man’s eyes widened and darted about fearfully before telling Arthur about the brawl and John’s subsequent arrest. Arthur turned away from the man and began pacing back towards the horses. 

“If you’re looking for money, friend, you’ll have no luck. That rat didn’t have near enough to cover his damn tab.”

Arthur paused, turned, tossed a coin at the man, and responded with a dull “Thanks, Mister” before returning to the street. Rhodes was small, in a short enough stroll Arthur had made his way to the side of the Sheriff’s Office. Sidling up quietly, he peered into the building and to his surprise found John sitting, unchained, at the desk with a lawman. Arthur slid over to a different window to get a better view. Sure enough, the two of them were drinking together, talking; Arthur even thought he’d heard laughter. Rage began to build in the pit of his stomach.

Arthur made his way to the front door and shoved it open. Both men at the desk jumped to their feet, John flashed a quick smile, the lawman just shifted his dumbfounded gaze back and forth between the two outlaws. All three men stood frozen.

“P-please, Mr. Morgan. Please close the door tight behind you.” stammered the lawman.

Arthur’s stare bored into John as he lumbered towards him. “Now why in the hell does _he_ know my _name_?”

John shrunk and stared at the ground. Eddy could see waves of terror crash over a man that moments ago had appeared to be utterly fearless. Not that Eddy could find fault in John's behaviour; this beast, this 'Arthur Morgan', was horrifying in stature. An instinct to protect John kicked in. “L-look, sir. We was jus' swapping war stories about our bosses, ain’t no reason for concern. John here is w-welcome to leave with you. I ain’t looking to cause you folks no trouble.”

Arthur turned his gaze over to Eddy. “And how is it that you’ve come to pardon a man who, from what I’ve heard in town, killed another man not two days ago?” Eddy didn’t have an answer so Arthur returned his sights on John to continue, “And how is it that I’ve come to find you sitting here, carrying on like old dear friends with this lawman while your wife has us all out looking for your sorry self?”

John swallowed hard and continued looking downwards. Before another word could be spoken Arthur lunged at Eddy and began crushing his throat between his hands. John pleaded with him to stop as the colour drained from the deputy’s face. Arthur flexed his grip as hard as he could until the telltale click of the man’s neck cracking filled the room. The deputy’s body fell to the ground in a lifeless heap. Arthur set his sights on to John once more. 

With his hands raised up, palms open outwards from his body, John began shaking his head and pleading as he stepped backwards away from the man. Arthur pulled his revolver from it’s holster and smashed the butt of it against John’s head, the younger gang member crumpled to the ground beside the deputy. Arthur grabbed the open bottle from the desk and poured the rest of the burning liquid amber down his throat. He needed a moment to clear his head, but only a brief one; there was work to do. 

Arthur began to search the room. He had gathered up John’s belongings from the trunk, grabbed every gun, bottle, and scrap of ammo he could find, then found a set of prisoner’s shackles and the corresponding keys from the lawman’s keyring. He threw everything into a sack except for the shackles which he then used on his unconscious brother, hoisting him up and then dumping him into the trunk that had previously held his gear. 

Arthur poked his head out the back door and was pleased to find a wagon already hitched with a team left unguarded behind the sheriff’s office. He set to work hiding the deputy’s body in a cabinet and then dragged the trunk containing John towards the back door. He surveyed the room once more and deciding he was satisfied that all signs of struggle had been removed, Arthur dragged the trunk and heaved it up onto the back of the wagon. Within minutes he was unhitching his and John’s horses so they could follow alongside him and began a hasty escape from Rhodes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur takes John somewhere they can have a private discussion without being interrupted.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's an interrogation, so, this is where it starts to get bad.  
> Turn back now, ye tenderhearted folk.  
> Seriously, you've read the tags; why are you still here?

Arthur’s head was spinning. It was unfathomable to him that John would turn to the law, but there weren’t any sense denying what he had seen back in Rhodes. He’d decided it was better that he took the time to get some answers before turning the man in to Dutch & Hosea. Besides, if he had to kill John himself at least this way they could keep the news from everyone else in camp; Abigail and Jack didn’t deserve to suffer because of the idiot they were mixed up with. 

It had been a quiet ride so far, passed maybe three other riders and none of them seemed to recognize the stolen wagon or show any concern about the additional horses plodding alongside it. Wasn’t much more than a half day’s ride up to an old house Arthur had come across a week back. He’d agreed to head up there to round up some long lost belongings for a sad old man he’d run into in Rhodes. Arthur was not impressed to discover that he’d been tricked into helping a man who’d made a living recapturing slaves, but the secret basement with chains driven into the support beams would work well for this unfortunate interrogation. 

Arthur dismounted and checked out the building. Upon finding it properly abandoned he set about dragging the worn trunk off of the wagon and up into the house to a spot beside the trap door in the living room. There was a smirk on the burly man’s face as he intentionally smashed the trunk roughly over every obstacle along the way. 

Returning outside, Arthur parked the wagon as far into the burnt out barn as he could safely manage. He cut the team loose, sent them off, then found a secluded spot to hitch up his own horse out of sight beside Old Boy. The odds seemed slim that any of his fellow Van Der Lindes would stumble close enough to recognize their horses, but Arthur wanted to buy as much time and privacy as he could. His trust had been shaken when John abandoned the gang for that year, sure, but they had been brothers for a decade and Arthur wondered if he really could bring himself to kill John, traitor or not. This wasn't going to be easy.

“He knew the rules.” The outlaw muttered to himself as he entered the house. 

If he was going to get any real answers Arthur would have to tap into his cruelest nature. Getting information out of hardened men was usually a stomach-churning scene; a scene that Arthur was set on sparing Hosea and Dutch from having to witness. Those two men loved John as a son and surely the news of his betrayal would be devastating enough, no reason to make them watch Arthur cut his fingers off one by one.

Drawing in a long, deep sigh Arthur began to prepare himself to play the role of big, bad wolf. He approached the trunk, sat down on it, then pulled out and loudly cleaned his guns one at a time. Not a single noise came from within the trunk and for a moment Arthur worried that he’d managed to snap John’s neck transporting him. Arthur stood, kicked the trunk violently, and yelled at the man inside to “give up on his beauty sleep”. Rustling and the faint clatter of chains could be heard from within. Arthur popped open the trunk. He grabbed John up by his collar and threw him onto the floor. John’s shackled wrists and ankles made it impossible to catch himself, the cartilage of his nose gave way to a sickening crunch as his face smashed into the hardwood. John gagged on the warm rush of blood pouring from his nostrils as the edges of his vision grew fuzzy and dark. He desperately tried to make sense of his surroundings as Arthur pulled open a part of the floor beside him and carried him into the dark room below. 

Arthur placed John down on the dirt-pack floor of the basement and then pulled out his lantern, lit it, and set it on a hook protruding from one of the nearby structural beams. The light wasn’t quite enough to fill the room but after bringing down the rest of his gear and closing the trapdoor behind him, his eyes began to adjust and found the light to be plenty adequate for his needs. John had been positioned on his knees between two heavy wooden posts, each with chains mounted in place with heavy bolts. One end of each chain had a round steel cuff and the other end was connected into an adjustable locking mechanism. The chains ran loosely through a heavy metal ring bolted to the post so they could be adjusted to lift the prisoner clear off of the ground if necessary. It was a brutal set up that had given Arthur chills when he’d first discovered it’s intention. He could scarcely have ever imagined he’d find himself making use of it.

He took one of the metal cuffs affixed to the beam to John’s left and secured it around the man’s wrist before undoing the prisoner shackles and guiding his other wrist towards the beam to his right. After locking the cuffs securely Arthur pulled each chain taught through the metal rings and secured their respective position locks. He didn’t force John to stand, but his wrists were now pulled uncomfortably high above his head, keeping the battered man firmly on his knees. Arthur didn’t see any reason to bother undoing the shackles on his ankles. 

John coughed out a clot of blood from his throat, “A-arthur. Please. What-” he gasped for a breath to continue to speak “what are you doing?” His head was swimming from the assault and he could barely string together the events that lead to his being chained in some musty, dark hole. His cloudy mind was screaming at him to resist the darkness still gathering at the edges of his vision.

Arthur had pulled off his jacket, removed his satchel, and placed them next to where his belt, holsters, and bandoleer had been neatly folded. He didn’t have much use for his guns. Not just yet, at least. He ran his hands along the length of one of Comston’s long abandoned bullwhips and then gathered it up into tight loops in one hand. He positioned himself directly in front of his captive, took a hold of John’s chin and tilted his face upwards. Rubbing the leather of the whip against John’s cheek in a gentle threat, Arthur asked him if he’d ever felt the bite from a bullwhip before.

“No” John croaked out. He was shaking uncontrollably. 

“There really ain’t any type pain quite like it.” Arthur mused. “Tears strips right through you, like being sliced open with a dull knife, only really, really fast.” Arthur leaned in and stared John down. He spoke slowly now, danger sown heavily into every syllable “What were you doing in Rhodes, _Boy_?”

John was fucking terrified. He didn’t know exactly how much of his conversation Arthur had heard. He didn’t think he’d manage to lie to his big brother, but there was still some tiny part of him that resisted confessing exactly what him and the deputy had been discussing. Whether it was the liquor, the concussion, or the blood loss, John couldn’t stop shaking and stuttering.

“I w-went there t-to drink, got m-myself into, in to a f-fight” 

Arthur continued to stare at him.

“W-woke up in a cell, t-they was gonna t-transf-fer me to Saint Den-denis.”

“And so you cut a deal to get out?” Arthur supplied angrilly. “Sold us out so you could run away again?”

John’s eyes widened with panic, “N-No! No, Arthur, I sw-swear. Absolutely n-not. Never! N-never.”

Arthur let go of John’s chin and paced around behind him. It had been years, shit, longer than Arthur could remember since he’d used a whip. He took a few practice cracks and each sharp snap in the air had John jumping and flinching violently. Arthur smiled as the man danced fearfully in his chains. He’d have his answers soon enough.

The first crack split the back of John’s shirt open, the whip licking across both of his shoulder blades. John’s scream was animalistic, peppered with choked sobs. Blood started soaking the torn fabric. Arthur leaned in close and could see fatty tissues protruding from the wound. Stunningly effective. Arthur made a mental note to add one of these whips to his belt before leaving this place.

“I’m going to have to take this real slow or you just might die on me, Marston.” John was shaking worse than before, but had stopped twisting and flinching. He hung in place, sobbing and vibrating but otherwise unmoving as he anticipated another blow. “So tell me again, what is it you was talking with your lawman friend about?” 

John was silent, but only for a moment before Arthur brought the whip crashing back down against his lower back. The scream that ripped out of John’s chest was louder than the first. It stirred something deep inside of Arthur, causing a smile to flash across the outlaw’s bearded face. John was gagging loudly and twisting around against his bonds again. 

Arthur moved in front of his captive. John was still struggling with the tacky gobs of blood that had filled his throat after his embrace with the floor had shattered his nose. Arthur offered him a taste of whiskey and waited patiently as John began to somewhat normalize. “Tell me, you little fucking rat, what you and your lawman friend were talking about.” Arthur brandished a knife and drew the tip lightly across some of John’s freshest scars. John squirmed away as Arthur pressed particularly hard in one spot high on his cheek. “Maybe, once I’ve finished on your back, I might just take one of your eyes.”

“I was manipulating him.” John sputtered. “It were just the deputy you saw me talking with, I happened upon a secret of his and once the Sheriff left I was able to get him to let me out to talk.”

“Bullshit, you’re too stupid to manipulate anyone, Marston. I ain’t no fool.” Arthur pressed his blade into John’s cheek until ruby drops formed and started running down the side of his face.  
“N-no, fuck, really. I fucking swear it, Arthur, please.”

“Why did he know my name, John?” Arthur moved his knife over to John’s other cheek. “What secret of his required you to open your fucking mouth about me?”

Arthur stood abruptly with the whip in his hand and moved himself into place once more. 

“Nooo!” John screamed “Not again, No, no no no no, fuck please. Please Arthur, I-” The whip bit into John for a third time, his scream cut short by a rush of bile from his stomach that spilled down the front of his body. His shoulders went limp as his head slumped forward. Arthur kicked him. John had passed out. 

Blood had begun soaking John’s jeans and Arthur realized he didn’t have much time to intervene before blood loss would cut his interrogation short. Arthur tore off the shredded remains of John’s shirt. After examining the three large lacerations spanning the width of John’s torso, Arthur settled on cauterization. He set to work cleaning and filling the gashes with gunpowder. “Well, this is going to fucking hurt” Arthur stated to no one in particular. He was smiling as he lit the powder. 

John didn’t wake until the second wound was lit, and Arthur didn’t pause as he moved his match to the third. John screamed and twisted, cried, shook, and begged. “Shut the fuck up, Marston. Three little strokes and you pass out on me? Fucking pathetic.” 

John had been shot, stabbed, beaten, but nothing had ever come close to the pain his mentor had inflicted with that whip. Despair settled in. John felt it was clear he wasn’t going to make it out of this room alive. He had to try, he had to make Arthur understand. Part of him doubted that at this point it would do him any good. If this is what Arthur could do to a traitor, what would he do if he’d found out the truth?

A sharp burning sensation on John’s neck snapped him back to attention. Arthur had pulled up a chair and was face to face with John again, smoking a cigarette. Arthur touched it’s bright cherry to John’s neck a second time. “Start talking, Marston.”

Desperately, he explained the angle he was trying to use to get himself free before the law shipped him away from Rhodes. Every word was broken with a sob, but John did his best to lay himself bare. He told Arthur about the Deputy’s feelings for the Sheriff and explained how he recognized the man’s ordeal because he suffered a similar burden. 

“‘Swapping war stories about our bosses’...” Arthur mused. “..that’s what your lawman friend had said when I showed up.” Arthur drew in a long drag and let it go thoughtfully. “You’re _in love_ with Dutch, then? Like, like a _woman_?” The last sentence tumbled out of Arthur's’ mouth with utter disgust; his eyes narrowed as he analyzed John. John’s heart sank, it was quite clear that Arthur possessed none of these inclinations.

“No, you thick fool-” Arthur’s face hardened at John’s disobedient outburst and before the bound man could finish his thought the fist crashing against his stomach sent him into another ghastly coughing fit. 

John looked absolutely terrible; a disgusting mess of snot, vomit, tears, and blood smeared on skin that was white as paper. His hair was damp with sweat and matted with blood from where the butt of Arthur’s revolver had split his scalp open. Arthur's lips pulled into another brief smile while his captive struggled to breathe. He came to the realization that he sincerely enjoyed watching his brother suffer. No, it was more than that. He enjoyed _making_ his brother suffer. 

“I mean, my...” John wrestled with his nerves as the man he’d lusted after for years glared at him, “these f-feelings, m-my feelings. They ain’t for Dutch, god no. They’re, they’re for you.” John flinched and screwed up his face in anticipation of catching Arthur’s fist again. 

After a long moment of nothing happening John dared to open one eye. Arthur had stood and turned away. “That’s why the deputy knew who you were. I’d never met another man like me and it was nice to finally talk about this _illness_ with someone who understood.”

_Fuuuuuuck, fuck._

Arthur ran a hand through his hair and sighed; he believed John. 

Still, lashing John with that whip had instilled a strange and undeniable excitement inside of Arthur and he wasn’t ready to cut him loose just yet. He decided instead to continue learning about his brother’s sick secrets. He sat back down, lit another smoke, downed some whiskey, offered the bottle against John’s lips, and began a new line of questioning. 

“Have you always been like _this_?”

“For as long as I’d begun liking anything, yes.”

“Have you ever been with a man?”

“No. Never. Never spoke with another man about this until catching that deputy.”

“And what about Abigail?”

“She figured out what I was and came up with a plan. She’d keep my secret if I married her. The men in camp would leave her alone and no one would figure I was _funny_.”

“Have you ever been with a woman?”

“No. Never. Just have no interest.”

Arthur took another swig from the bottle. He found himself awash with pity for this sad, broken man. “So, so Jack…?”

“He ain’t mine. Abigail fell pregnant shortly after we’d made our arrangement. I don’t know if she knew, or found out afterwards, or what; it didn’t matter to me. Being trapped like that it’s…” John’s face was twisted in grief, blood from the fresh cut on his cheek mixing with an occasional tear, ”...it’s why I left.”

Arthur took another long drag from his cigarette, the bright cherry casting faint red illumination on both of their faces. Arthur hadn’t been conscious of how closely he’d leaned in, this was not a conversation to be shared loudly. “Did Abigail say how exactly she’d known?”

John’s eyes closed. _Goddamnit, Arthur._ John didn’t want to answer this question but he wasn’t about to have his back stripped open again. John swallowed a few times mulling it over. Arthur clicked his tongue impatiently. 

“She snuck up on me, slipped into my tent when I was drunk one night. I was…” he shifted his weight uncomfortably, gasping as the cuffs bit further into his wrist.

Arthur brought his cigarette close to John’s cheek as a warning. “I’m listening, Marston.” The heat from the cigarette’s tip made John flinch, still unwilling to open his eyes and face his captor. 

“I was touching myself and she heard me say your name. She heard me say your name while I was, uh, _finishing_.” John’s eyes finally opened. No hiding from this now. He searched Arthur’s face for any sign of emotion, any hint that he was going to let John keep breathing after making his confession.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur takes some time to enjoy himself before finishing the task at hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/06/2020  
> I've reworked this chapter.

Arthur was quiet for a long time. Finished his smoke, lit another immediately. It felt like forever before he did finally speak again. “So you get _excited_ thinking about _me_?” Arthur wrinkled his nose. ”You _want_ me the way a _woman_ does?” it was clear Arthur was struggling to comprehend John’s predicament, but it was a good sign to John that he was at least trying. 

“No, not ‘the way a woman does’. I ain’t no woman, and I don’t think women get hard thinking about the men they want.”

Another long silence.

“So you want me, want me to touch you? You think about me touching you?”

John just nodded, eyes screwed shut again.

“What does that even look like?”

John wasn’t sure what to say. He knew he imagined Arthur’s arms wrapped around him, pictured kissing him deeply and breathing in his scent as he pleasured the older man with his mouth. He’d occasionally work a few fingers down his throat or inside of his anus imagining Arthur’s cock there instead. How does he explain that to a man who lacked interest or imagination?

Arthur spontaneously started freeing John. He mumbled a warning about trying to run away but the thought hadn’t even crossed his hazy mind. Once free, John merely slumped into a half-conscious pile leaned up against one of the pillars he’d been chained to. What little blood was still left in his body rushed to his arms causing his strained shoulders and bruised wrists to sting. He was sobbing quietly. Arthur grabbed his jacket from the table and wrapped it around John; his back shouldn’t be bleeding much anymore but it was certainly raw and likely felt terrible up against the rough wood. 

After placing a health tonic and a bottle of whisky on the ground in front of John, Arthur sat himself down beside his brother and gingerly placed an arm around his shoulders. John had been comforted by Arthur before, but now, knowing that Arthur knew how John felt about him, it seemed entirely different from those other times. With his body still violently shaking John reached for the health cure and Arthur’s steady hand helped him guide it to his mouth. John looked up at Arthur and tucked himself in under his arm. John hadn’t felt so small and fragile since he was a child. They sat like this for a while, quietly sharing the bottle of whisky until the bottle had emptied. 

“Alright then, John. Show me.”

John’s eyes snapped open. His body was still on fire and his head was pounding, though the bottle between the two men had dulled some of the more urgent pain. He looked up at Arthur with his mouth hanging open. “Show you what?”

“Show me how you want me to touch you.”

Alarm bells were sounding in John’s head. Surely he didn’t mean it; this was some twisted trick. All the fear John had felt while he was strung up returned to him. Arthur was toying with him. Of course he was. How could he have been so stupid? John’s heart hammered viciously inside of his chest. He was confronted by the reality that he wasn’t leaving this musty old shack after all. Whatever kindness, whatever tenderness this man had shown him, there was no way Arthur would let a sick deviant like him come back to camp. John’s back stiffened as Arthur pulled his arm away from it’s place wrapped around him. 

Arthur could see the panic playing out across John’s face; why wouldn’t he be terrified? He had just tortured the poor wretch. Arthur pulled off his neckerchief, shook the last few drops from the discarded health cure onto the fabric and dabbed at the cut on John’s face. Once he’d finished clearing the blood off of John’s tear stained cheek he repeated his instruction. “Show me how you want me to touch you, John.”

John furiously avoided eye contact. Tears began to well up in his eyes. This was a cruel trick and he just wanted this whole terrible day to be over, however Arthur saw fit to end it.

“Show me.” A demand this time. Arthur’s voice had developed a dangerous edge. John’s whole body shuddered and in a bid to avoid further brutalization he guided Arthur’s hands into an embrace around his battered body. He slid himself on to the larger man’s muscular thighs. John ran his own hand around to the small of Arthur’s back and allowed his other hand to pull on Arthur’s collar, leaving only a few inches of space between their faces. John’s eyes darted from Arthur’s own, down to Arthur’s lips, and back up again. He froze, he couldn’t bring himself to claim a kiss from his big brother despite being straddled on his lap. Instead, he pulled himself in and ran his tongue along Arthur’s collarbone. The warm mixture of sweat and campfire smoke on the man tasted better than John had ever imagined it might. The slight shudder and the hitch in Arthur’s breath ignited John's courage. He pulled his hand out from behind Arthur and pushed the man’s bulky form backwards on to the ground, pulling apart the buttons of his shirt along the way. Arthur’s jacket slipped off of John’s back as he worked his mouth along each curve and line in Arthur’s torso. 

John tried his absolute best to make his tongue feel good for Arthur, but as he found his way to the bottom of Arthur’s stomach he was disappointed to find that the cowboy did not share in his enthusiasm. Pain fired in endless waves across his back and he had sustained considerable loss of blood, but still John’s cock was painfully hard in his jeans. John opened the front of Arthur’s pants and paused once more, looking up bashfully at his big brother. Arthur’s eyes were transfixed on John and despite his own cock not stiffening up he gently encouraged John to continue. He’d never had someone offer to place their mouth on him like this before, though he had been familiar with the service being offered by whores charging more than Arthur was willing to pay. He took a deep breath, rolled his head back, and played through all of the best memories he'd shared with Mary, Eliza, and a few of the working women he'd had when the urge to fuck became too distracting. It was difficult, but he tried his level best to forget that the pair of lips teasing the head of his cock belonged to John. 

It worked. Arthur’s cock began to swell in John’s mouth. Having only ever practiced with a few errant fingers, John was struggling to accommodate the full length and girth as Arthur grew to size. Still, he refused to give up; he had wanted this for years.

John braced himself as the head of Arthur's cock breached the tight smooth muscles lining his throat. Fighting the urge to gag, John sucked at Arthur's cock like a starving animal. Arthur’s focus slowly began to shift away from the images his mind had conjured. The obscene noises from the man bent over him made it impossible to retreat to the fantasy of a soft, wet woman. He looked down at John, twisted his fingers into his black mop of hair and bucked his hips up into John’s mouth. Shock painted John's expression as Arthur buried himself further down the back of the man’s throat. This aggressive intrusion incited John' gag reflex and he lost control. He pulled himself off hastily from Arthur’s cock, coughing and sputtering while his empty stomach threatened to force out what little fluids might be left inside. 

“J-jesus..” he coughed some more as he worked towards regaining his composure. 

Arthur watched intently. He was overcome with the same stirring from before; the same rush of pleasure he had felt when he was whipping John’s back. Arthur's cock strained and twitched. His mind was heavy with lust and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to watch John choking on his shaft. He tightened his grip in John’s hair and greedily stuffed his cock back in his mouth. “You want to taste my dick, boy, then you’re going to take it like a god-damned whore.” Arthur growled, bucking wildly as he abused John’s throat. Tears began streaming down John’s face as his hands pressed flat against Arthur's hips in a vain attempt to free himself from the man’s grasp. His throat was convulsing against the intrusion and just as the desperate need for oxygen became overwhelming, John felt a hot rush of fluid filling the back of his throat.

John was stunned; Arthur brought himself off, in John’s mouth, while looking John _in the eyes_. Sure, there wasn't any of the tenderness John had fantasized about, but still, Arthur hadn't kept his eyes closed and imagined he was with someone else. This was more than John had ever dared to hope he could get from the burly enforcer. He was still gasping for air and fighting down the bile climbing up from inside, but the traitorous bulge in his pants encouraged Arthur to continue his assault. 

Arthur set about tugging John’s blood-soaked jeans off of his body. He didn’t posses an understanding of proper technique or decorum whilst fucking another man, but he was pretty sure he had a grasp of the basic mechanics. He couldn’t imagine anything about being penetrated that way being enjoyable, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t the one with this illness. This was John’s ailment and so it seemed likely enough to Arthur that John would be pleased for the attention regardless of an absence of finesse. Arthur picked John up and bent him over a hastily cleared space on a nearby workbench. John was squirming and begging, but didn’t actually say what it was he was begging for. Did he want Arthur to stop? Arthur twisted a fist into John’s hair and pulled his head back towards him, planting a firm bite into his neck.

John gasped and cried out. Arthur was hard again, John could feel Arthur’s cock pressed against his bare ass. Arthur panted into John’s ear, “Do you want me to fuck you, Marston? Take you as my own? Make you my little whore?” 

The pain of John’s back was worsening as the fabric of Arthur’s open shirt caressed against his burns. His own cock had been carelessly pressed into the edge of the workbench and hurt terribly each time Arthur rutted against him. Still, John wanted more. He hated himself for wanting a man who had no interest in him or his well being, but John was no stranger to self-loathing. “Yes, Arthur, Please. F-fuck, fuck me." 

With one final snarl in John’s ear, Arthur took his hand and guided his cock against John’s hole. In a lack of experience, Arthur failed to consider the benefit of spit or oil and thrust a third of himself into John by sheer force. John screamed and instinctively pulled himself away from Arthur's cock, only succeeding in hurting himself further against the rough edge of the bench. Arthur felt drunk on the sound of John’s desperate howling. He continued to force himself inside of the young man, inch by inch, until he had buried his entire length into him. Arthur fucked him erratically until the stretching and tearing from the dry friction induced bleeding, the blood facilitating a smoother glide to Arthur's movements. Large, calloused hands pulled John off of the workbench and let him fall to the ground. He hit the floor hard and within a split second felt Arthur dive back on top of him, slamming his full length back into John with one heaving crash. Arthur tore into John, throwing the force of his entire weight into each thrust as he fucked John down into the ground. Oh god, did it hurt; far worse than John could have imagined. He felt as though his spine was going to snap underneath Arthur, but he braced himself with his arms and flexed the muscles in his torso in an attempt to maintain his position beneath the lumbering beast. Each callous thrust since landing on the floor had Arthur's tip stabbing relentlessly against something deep inside that reduced John’s entire being into one white-hot sensation of rapture. He started to feel himself succumb to a growing fire of pleasure and need, John would do anything to keep this sensation from ending. His screams became more frantic, almost delirious, as Arthur drove his cock into him with unyielding power. John’s body bubbled over as his own cock erupted and spilled his seed into the dirt. Arthur’s only hint that John had finished was the sudden tightening and spasming of his hole around Arthur’s cock. 

Arthur slowed his pace. “Did you just…” 

“...yes.” John panted.

“Fucking degenerate.”

Arthur picked his pace back up before withdrawing entirely. John’s hole quivered in the wake of it’s emptiness before it was suddenly filled with Arthur’s full length once more. Arthur pulled himself in and out of John completely with each thrust, a torturous sensation almost rivaling the bullwhip.

“Come here. Put your mouth on me again.” Arthur barked.

John dutifully obeyed, but was horrified when the tastes of blood and shit mixed in his mouth. John tried to pull away but Arthur had already locked his fingers into John’s hair. He began to fuck his face roughly. With a handful of quick thrusts John could feel Arthur painting the back of his throat with the hot splash of his semen.

“That’s a good boy, swallow it all down. Don’t leave your fucking filth on my cock.” 

Arthur held John’s head firmly in place and kept his cock sheathed in his throat until it had gone soft. John fought hard to keep from gagging and puking, swirling his tongue around Arthur’s cock and working all of the foreign material he encountered down his throat. He tried not to think about the reality too much. He could feel blood dripping from his ass each time he stifled a gag; It felt like his guts were going to fall out of his body. 

"That what you wanted, boy?"

John's eyes were wet, his cheeks were hot with shame. He couldn't maintain eye contact with his big brother, let alone summon the courage to speak. 

Arthur placed his hand on the top of John's head and patted him affectionately. "Thank me, whore." 

"Thank you, Arthur."

"For what?"

"F-for fucking me. For letting me taste you, for making me come." His head was hung low, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Did you enjoy cleaning yourself off of my dick? Hmm? Enjoy the taste of your own asshole?"

"No." 

The back of Arthur's hand sent John crashing into the ground. "Don't fucking lie to me, boy; you god-damned loved it. You _disgust_ me."

Arthur made quick work of pulling up and refastening his pants, had his shirt half buttoned up as he made his way up the stairs to push open the trap door. John heard him leave the cabin above him and was suddenly concerned that he’d upset the man.

John felt foolish. He felt angry. He’d been beaten unconscious, tortured, used, humiliated, and abandoned in this stuffy shit hole and he was worried that he might have upset Arthur? He attempted to pull his jeans back on and began to feel sick when he realized how much of his blood had soaked in to the denim. He noticed there was vomit on his chest. He tried to seduce the man he loved, tried to convince a straight man to give him a try, while covered in blood and puke. John felt like an absolute idiot, and finally the smell of the room and the stress of the ordeal caught up with him. Another sob worked it's way up John's throat, suppressed immediately by the footsteps he heard approaching. While he was looking for a place to hide he noticed that Arthur had left all of his gear on the other workbench. The relief he felt rush over him when he realized he hadn’t been left behind was just another reminder that he was a complete fool.

The trapdoor opened again and Arthur descended the steps with a pail and some fabric. John felt worse for doubting Arthur, he’d gone to fetch supplies so John could clean himself up. The sentient made his chest grow warm, his brother still cared about him. 

Arthur all but ignored John as he placed the pail up on the bench holding his gear. Arthur shuffled around in his satchel until he managed to find his journal and a pencil. John was confused; was Arthur really going to draw him in this state?

John’s confusion only grew as Arthur handed the pencil and journal over to him.

“You’re going to write down every word I tell you to, John. Are you ready?”

John felt utterly disgusting sitting on the dirt floor coated in filth, but he had absolutely no will left to defy Arthur. He flipped to a blank page nearing the end of Arthur’s journal and focused on writing as legibly as he could. 

“Dear Uncle Tacitus,” Arthur began. John couldn’t possibly imagine why Arthur would make John write a letter to Arthur, but he scrawled the letters down onto the fresh sheet of paper carefully all the same.

“It is with a heavy heart that I must say goodbye to you and to the rest of our family. I’m afraid that living in Saint Denis has opened my eyes up to many different ways of living and it has become apparent that the lifestyle I wish to pursue is not compatible with the values of your household. Please do not tell Annie Richards or her son about my reasons for leaving, but let her know that there is a safety deposit box in the Strawberry Post that contains a sum of money for her and the boy. I trust that one of you will be able to help her collect it. Please know that there is no sense coming to find me as the Jim Milton that you knew will cease to exist shortly after sending out this letter. ” Arthur did not move his gaze from John as he slowly dictated each line. When the intention of the letter became apparent to the author his hand developed a tremor. He did not stop writing. He signed his alias’ signature on the letter as instructed. He met Arthur's gaze with an unsettling degree of composure.

“So this is it for me, then?”

Arthur nodded gruffly.

“Will it be quick?”

Arthur shook his head. He took his journal from John and placed it back inside his satchel. He returned carrying the pail and cloth. 

John eyed the pail. Water. Of course Arthur would use fucking water. The man had a sick sense of poetic irony, there was no denying that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur cleans up his mess.

Arthur looked down at John’s still body.

 _'At least I managed to wash some of the dirt away',_ Arthur scoffed to himself silently. 

John looked years younger now without the stress and strain of hard living twisting his features into sharp, deep lines. Best he'd looked in years.

Arthur was still grappling with the perverse sense of satisfaction he'd felt while abusing his little brother. He had sweated men for information plenty in his line of work but it had never incited this type of intrigue. He'd have a lot to think about later, the sound of John's screams would live in Arthur's memory until he took his own last breath. Maybe his mentors would have some guidance for him; not that Arthur would tell them anything about what _really_ happened here. 

Arthur struck his boot hard into John’s stomach. The pale, black haired wretch began to sputter and cough up water. He was still bound to the board Arthur had used to torture him but Arthur had changed the angle he was laying, allowing John to successfully remove the water from his mouth and nasal cavity. Arthur felt that same lurid fascination growing inside of him as he watched John thrashing wildly against the ropes.

“Congratulations, Mister Marston. Welcome to your brand new life.” 

John continued shaking, gagging, and convulsing in his ropes; the ebb of life painting his formerly blue face with a hint of colour. “What the fuck did you do to me, Arthur?!” 

“I killed you, Marston." Arthur's face was a devilish grin, teeth bared like a predatory animal. "I put an end to the miserable life you were leading, and now, you get to start a brand new one.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” All of the fear Arthur instilled in John had drained away once Arthur had begun to drown him. John was barely breathing but the ferocity of the wolf shone in his eyes. Arthur was pleased to see that he hadn't _completely_ broken the boy. He relished in John's defiant spirit and there was a ruinous pleasure that came with the realization he would still have to utilize a degree of violence to make his pet behave. 

There was no better feeling, Arthur mused, than the feeling that had swelled in his chest while he'd reduced his little brother into a quivering mess of broken desperation. His screams were pathetic, first punctuated with sobs, then frenzied with rage, evolving lastly into sheer hopelessness as he involuntary gargled the water being poured into his throat. Fear had widened the young man's eyes until they seemed to occupy his entire face, fingernails cracked and bled as they frantically clawed the board he was bound to. Every muscle in his body danced despite the agony they'd been forced to endure before that point. John had been reduced to an animal, heaving with the sum of his remaining strength as his basic instinct of self preservation took complete hold of him. It was absolutely beautiful, Arthur would savour that image in his mind's eye forever. 

Arthur knelt down closer to John and brought the soaking wet cloth back to his face. 

“Are we going to have to do that again, or are you going to calm down and talk to me with some _god damned respect_?”

John froze. The very last memory he had before waking up was the most horrifying in his life. The muscles in his neck tearing as he hopelessly struggled against the ropes Arthur had bound him with, his nose and throat inexorably filling with water, the world fading away as his lungs failed to pull in a breath. He had no idea how he was still alive and he was not prepared to walk down that path ever again. 

“Good, you're listening now. That’s a good start.” Arthur pulled the cloth away from his trembling captive and made a show of placing the bucket at a distance. “You have a few simple rules to follow now, John, and if you manage to follow them all, then I will keep your secret for you.” Arthur studied the look of confusion on John’s face. Pearson had warned him that this type of torture could result in short term memory loss. “Do you remember telling me your secret, Marston?”

It took a few long moments but eventually images of Arthur fucking his mouth came flooding back to John. The pain in his back from the whip cutting him to pieces, the sharp tearing of Arthur fucking him, that poor deputy whom had lost his life for sharing in John’s predilections. The suicide letter Arthur had made John write out. All of it. 

“I remember.” John offered dully. The fire in his eyes had reduced to a faint smoulder.

“Good. Honestly, John, I’m flattered that you _want_ to belong to me. I think you’ll be happier, too. You're a damn fool, a reckless one at that. You haven’t made a lot of admirable decisions. The way I figure it, if I take the choices out of your hands you can just follow orders and stop being such a mopey little shit.”

“Arthur, the fuck are-”

“Ssh-shh-shhhhh!” Arthur lazily covers John’s mouth with his gloved hand. “First of all, Marston, you will call me “Mr. Morgan” or “Sir”. That’s it. Understand?” Arthur didn’t remove his hand for an answer, John glared. 

“Next, the moment you find yourself back in camp, you are telling Abigail that you love her. You are telling Jack that you are proud that he’s your son, and you are moving them into your lodgings with you.” This time Arthur removed his hand and allowed John to argue. 

“The fucking kid isn’t mine. I told you.”

“I don’t give a single fuck about the legitimacy of this mess you’ve made for yourself. You've claimed Abigail, so you’ve claimed Jack. You are going to be a respectable husband and father to your family. Boy needs it; you can give him something ain’t neither of us had.”

“I don’t want a family.”

“Well, you’ve got one. If you can’t accept these terms, remember, I’ve got that letter. I can make sure you stay dead next time.”

Silence.

“Anything else, _sir_?” John spat out 'sir' spitefully through his gritted teeth. For his trouble Arthur wrapped a hand around his neck and squeezed until John’s vision began to blur.

“Yes, there is.” Arthur loosened his grip. He tilted John’s face upwards and leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. Arthur’s breath landed hot against John’s face as he spoke. “Every night that I’m in camp, you will wait until folk have fallen asleep. Then you will make your way to my cot...” Arthur ran the tip of his thumb across John’s bottom lip ”...and offer me your mouth.” Arthur continued to tease John’s bottom lip with a few of his fingers. John couldn't help himself, the last day of his life had been filled with utter horror but all his mind could focus on was the closeness him and Arthur had shared. The torture he'd endured paled in comparison to the orgasm Arthur had torn from his body. John knew he needed more, knew he would give anything to get more. A familiar self-loathing settled in as he lifted his head to suck on his tormentor's fingers provocatively. 

“And every excuse we can make to ride out together we’ll take. I’ll find us a quiet spot, and I will fuck you into the dirt until I decide you've had enough.” Arthur's lips were close to John’s now, he curled them back into an evil smile and shifted his gaze, guiding both their attentions to the protruding stiffness of John’s needy erection.

“Is any of this going to be a problem, _Little Johnny Marston_?” Arthur asked, setting his gaze back on to John’s face. “It would be disappointing if I had to put you in the ground before getting the chance to _really_ break you in.” 

John felt a delicate mixture of fear and fascination creep across his senses. What choice did he have?


End file.
